


Save my soul.

by smartforholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29350080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartforholmes/pseuds/smartforholmes
Summary: After Sherrinford, as he isolated from the people that cared about him, Mycroft starts to lose control, crying for help on his lowest point.Based on Mystrade Monday prompt #27 “I’ve got you.” and #28 "Please help me.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 6
Kudos: 77





	Save my soul.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, heavily inspired on Bring Me The Horizon’s “Can You Feel My Heart”.

Ever since Sherrinford, multiple lives were changed. Familiar bonds broken, friendships depending on a fine line. But most importantly, the connection and harmony of one’s mind shattered.

Or so, that’s how Mycroft Holmes’ life became in the aftermath of such traumatic events.

Being a person that depended on bad habits ever since a very young age, Mycroft had always found comfort on the overthinking of life; _why do we exist? Is there a reason why we were put on Earth? Living is an accomplishment or a punishment? Is living worthy?_ His uncertainties accompanied by a glass with 3 fingers-worth of very antique Whiskey, glass that was refilled until his memories become blurred and stomach acid burned his throat as he vomited on a near bin.

Misprized from the moment Eurus was taken away, the elder Holmes —with the close supervision of dear Uncle Rudy— started to formulate his cold persona, a façade that would exterminate any emotions that threatened to swaddle professional life.

And the Ice Man was born, a personality which started to devour the once kind and loving heart of a fourteen-year-old, replacing it with brain power and concentration. Focus. Emotionless. Dead inside.

Memories like those made him doubt, just like he was doing in that precise moment, if it was worth to be alive.

A wrinkled, dirty black suit covered his self-harmed body, a black armour that hid the length and exact representation of lack of amour-propre. A stomach that hadn’t been fed in several days, nor given liquid but the drink in Mycroft’s wandering hands.

Drunk, and alone in his most recent bought residence after Sherlock and John’s little prank, the elder Holmes concluded that night was appropriate to mark the end of it all. Haunted by his demons, sinking more and more into a several depression that limited his work life; a person that always maintained control over every step he took, Mycroft Holmes answered his long-lasting doubt.

_Is living worthy?_ _**No.** _

With his mind made up, Mycroft didn’t bother to call his driver. Instead, he put on his coat and went out to the freezing night, walking to the place where his emotional imbalance begun.

Wandering as a soulless corpse, the elder Holmes arrived at his destiny in a rather short amount of time for his worthless judgement, being almost 40 minutes by foot in reality. Soon, he stood face to face with the beginning of everything.

Feeling completely numb, Mycroft climbed step by step, passing from the 1st floor until he stood at the door that led to the rooftop of St. Bart’s, the cold breeze of the night coming in a harsh gaze to his face. His feet moved automatically, proving how broken he was; how he had lost control over his mind.

The elder Holmes stopped in his tracks as the tip of his polished Italian shoes met the edge of the ceiling, the auburn looked down and met an empty street, tears flooding his pale cheeks. There was no one, not even a stranger that could worry about his imminent death, and the way he decided it was best to leave the world.

Amid his sobbing, he pondered whether he should inform anyone about his departure; Anthea was on a well-deserved Holiday after the horrific overload of work Sherrinford had left on their hands. And, if Mycroft was honest with himself, he knew he was the last person his parents would appreciate to hear about, their resentment still evident. Which left Sherlock, whose attempts of communication were interrupted by one John Watson, another person that despised him for everything that happened.

_He had nobody._

On the other hand, Mycroft felt the necessity of letting at least someone know what he was about to do, give a final spark of life before vanishing from the several lives he had affected.

With tears in his eyes and a decision made in his mind, the government official pulled out his phone and dialled the one person he never let in, yet needed the most.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade yawned lowly as he got out of his favourite Indian restaurant, two bags of well-deserved takeaway on his hands. He had an exhausting day at the Yard, adding to the living Hell he went through, the newly DCI dealt with an annoying Sherlock for hours, the consulting detective insisting on at least a cold case to solve.

Speaking of Sherlock Holmes, he wasn’t exactly the Holmes that had been inundating his mind for the past few days; Mycroft becoming one of his biggest concerns ever since they lost communication no longer after Sherlock’s request of looking after his brother.

Mycroft’s rejection remained to hurt deep down his heart, the coldness and fury on his eyes and tone respectively haunting him during the night, making him wonder how much he went through to appear so broken and so resented at the same time.

His thoughts were interrupted by a particular ringtone, one that was chosen for a man in particular.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked when he accepted the call, confused at the sudden rapprochement.

His question was answered by ragged breathing, a sob breaking loose, enough to send an electric shock through his spine, and set a bad feeling on his gut.

“Is everything alright? Mycroft?”

“G-Gregory,”

God, the sound of Mycroft’s voice being so broke made him tremble, now knowing there was something wrong.

“Tell me what’s going on, something’s not okay,”

“I’m scared to get close, and I hate being alone,” Mycroft sobbed, his hands shaking with such intensity he thought his mobile would fall first.

Greg’s brows frowned in the darkness of the street. “Close to what? Mycroft, where are you?”

“I’m standing in the place I thought my brother had taken his life.”

Mycroft’s words were enough for Gregory to break into a sprint, dropping the bags of takeaway he was carrying. He forgot as he ran the pain on his knees that never vanished, and paid no attention to the annoyed claims pedestrians shouted at him for pushing them out of the way. Between aggressive inhales and exhales, the DCI could still hear Mycroft’s cries, suicidal declarations that impulse him to run faster.

“Please, help me,” He could hear amongst the numbness.

In minutes that felt like hours, Greg soon stopped in front of the Emergency Entrance of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. With his eyes adjusting to the abrupt change of brightness, he soon distinguished Mycroft’s silhouette, which was standing at the edge of the rooftop.

“Mycroft!” He shouted, feeling his throat burning at the sharpness. Yet, it wasn’t enough to catch Mycroft’s attention.

“For fuck’s sake—“ Lestrade murmured before dashing towards the entrance.

Quickly flashing his badge at the Security Guards and demanding for the stairs that lead to the rooftop, Greg rushed to climb the entire 12th floors, grabbing onto the handrail when he felt his legs would give up, not daring for a second to give up on Mycroft. Completely breathless, Lestrade kicked the door open, falling onto his knees once he saw Mycroft’s back facing him not too far away.

“Mycroft!” He tried again, gasping as his lungs gave out, doubling over trying to catch his breath.

This time, the auburn turned around but remained dangerously close to falling. The mobile fell from his hands, dry lips exhaling rapidly when the urge of crying became intolerable. Mycroft wanted _so bad_ to get off the edge and race into Greg’s arms; accept for once the comfort and comprehension Greg had offered him back in the day. But he just… Couldn’t.

Despite the growing necessity of feeling loved, Mycroft remained on his place, staring with a surprised look at Gregory regaining his breath.

“Mycroft, please, come back here,” Greg begged, getting on his feet and walking towards the taller man.

Terrified, the elder Holmes yelled, “Stay exactly where you are!” With his hand raised and pointed at the DCI, Mycroft started to shiver. “Or else I will jump.”

Greg swore he felt his face paling at the mere thought of sighting Mycroft jumping off just like John had the infortune of witnessing 5 years ago. But he had to formulate a plan to stop Mycroft from ending his own life, and he had to do it fast.

“I’ll do what you say but please listen to me,”

“And why would I listen to you, Detective Chief Inspector?” Mycroft snorted, looking down and longing for the feeling of not feel at all anymore.

Losing his patience, Greg responded. “You bloody called me! Deep down you know this isn’t what you want,”

“You don’t know what I—“

“Jump, then,” Greg dared him, crossing his arms and giving him a defiant glare, there was only one way he could completely understand Mycroft’s initiative.

_Pressure._

“Jump!” The older man insisted, seeing with clear detail how Mycroft’s former annoyed expression transformed into disbelief, eyes widening. “If you want to end your fucking life then jump!”

Mycroft hesitated, he had the opportunity right there, Gregory didn’t care; he was going to let him die anyway.

It’s just a step.

_It’s just a step._

_Take the bloody step._

_Jump._

_**JUMP** _

__

An ear-piercing scream broke out of Mycroft’s throat, causing Greg to flinch at the abrupt reaction. Mycroft’s palms were pressed to his eyes, groans and whimpers escaping from his mouth as he shed embarrassing tears in front of the DCI.

“I can’t,” He confessed after some time, hands still covering his bloodshot eyes. “I crave to jump and end my agony but I can’t. I can’t.”

_‘He’s not as strong as he think he is.’_

“Myc,” Greg murmured. “You deserve to be loved, and cherished, hell! I would give you the world if you allowed me to.”

Mycroft’s hands travelled to his ears, suppressing the voice in his head that insisted on ignoring Greg’s declarations; a voice that leads him to take the single step needed to end it all.

“I-I love you.”

The elder Holmes couldn’t believe what he heard. Was he hallucinating? Was he dead already? Did Gregory Lestrade, the overly respected and most lovable DCI in New Scotland Yard loved him? Him, the suicidal, cold, unstable, Holmes brother?

It was impossible.

“I love you,” Gregory reassured, taking another step closer, relieved Mycroft seemed not to notice. “Don’t make me lose you, I’m _begging_ you.”

Overflowed by intense emotions that overrun his body, exhaustion hit and Mycroft’s legs cede, falling backwards.

For a brief second, the elder Holmes felt like he was floating in the cold air, unknown and desired peace showering his body. Until a loud, desperate voice called his name.

“Mycroft, no!”

_I’m sorry, brother._

  
_So sorry, Gregory_

_  
__Forgive me, father._

  
_I love you, mother._

  
_Gregory—_

  
_**Gregory!** _

A set of hardworking hands tugged him back to the real world, Greg’s face getting closer to him as the DCI embraced him securely in his arms; both of them stumbling to the floor, Mycroft’s face tucked by instinct on Lestrade’s neck. It came to a point where all Mycroft could do was burst into tears, realizing how close he was from missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

“I’ve got you,” Gregory mumbled repeatedly, his tears falling onto Mycroft’s thin red hair. “I’ve got you for a long time but you don’t see it, you don’t—“ Greg choked on his own words, tightening his hold.

They stayed in that position until both calmed down, nevertheless, the elder Holmes refused to separate from Gregory, his breathing fastening and tears starting to fall at the slightest hint of detachment. Eventually, Greg managed to get them upright, Mycroft clinging onto his shoulders as they walked to the Emergency Room.

It became apparent Anthea had made the necessary calls hence there was a stretcher waiting for them, Sherlock and John pacing around nervously. With extreme care, Greg laid Mycroft in it, his hand brushing his hair tenderly.

“Please don't go," Mycroft pleaded, leaning onto the touch and setting his hand on top of Greg's.

With a warm smile, Greg promised him. “I’ll never leave you.”


End file.
